


Self-Defeat

by youcouldmakealife



Series: Follow the North Star [8]
Category: Original Work
Genre: M/M, Multi
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-03-23
Updated: 2017-03-23
Packaged: 2018-10-09 10:58:04
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,704
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10410633
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/youcouldmakealife/pseuds/youcouldmakealife
Summary: Compartmentalization is a beautiful concept, one Harry has a lot of respect and admiration for.Harry is really, really bad at it.





	

Compartmentalization is a beautiful concept, one Harry has a lot of respect and admiration for.

Harry is really, really bad at it.

Like, it was one thing when he genuinely thought he was so annoyed by Connelly because he was _annoying_. Too nice, too earnest, acted like everyone in the world was as nice as he was, got all wobbly lipped when they weren’t because of course they weren’t, what kind of fairy tale place do you _come_ from? And don’t say Canada because Harry’s met tons of Canadian jerks.

Harry wishes he could go back to innocently thinking that was the sum total of feelings in Connelly’s direction, but it’s not working. Sure, there’s still the annoyance, because seriously, how do you reach the age of twenty that naive, but there’s the…everything else there too, which is terrible, especially because Harry is, again, _really bad_ at compartmentalizing.

Harry has never been more grateful to get home from a roadie, and that’s saying something. It was his personal hell, with Connelly going around in his skimpy little underwear and his skimpy…okay the sweats he wears to bed aren’t skimpy, admittedly, but they looked so _comfy_ , like Connelly worn them to that soft edge that well-worn clothes get, like if Harry brushed his fingers over his thighs he’d be —

Anyway Harry’s really glad to get back and put the most distance he can between him and Connelly and hopefully get over this stupid…thing…before they head out again. Or alternately throw himself on management’s mercy and beg for a room swap or something, because he is not going to be able to handle sharing a room with someone he has to physically restrain himself from jumping. It’s not going to work. Harry has zero faith in his self-restraint. He’ll do something stupid, he just knows it.

So they get back to Minny, and Harry can lock himself away and try to use mind over matter, and he’ll get his head on straight and stop ogling the giant child.

It doesn’t go so well.

Like first Harry finds himself agreeing for no reason when Connelly asks if he’ll train with him, which is the opposite of distance, Harry, okay, spotting a dude while his head’s between your legs and he’s grunting and sweaty and red? Not distance. Not distance at all. 

It doesn’t help Harry’s headspace that Roman’s watching Connelly lift like it’s…like Harry probably would be if he didn’t have control over his facial muscles, the fuck, Novak. Harry, and like, the entire roster, has been watching Connelly bat his (stupidly pretty) eyelashes at Roman for over a year, and it just figures that the second Harry realizes why that pisses him off so much, Roman starts batting them back. Or not batting. Something a whole lot dirtier. 

Harry glares at Roman, but Roman’s so busy being lecherous in Connelly’s direction he doesn’t notice. It’s gross. Connelly’s twenty, Roman’s a whole lot closer to thirty to twenty, and it’s gross. Harry has a sudden urge to like, protect Connelly’s innocence, and not because he’d really like to be the one in on it instead.

Okay, not _just_ because of that.

In his annoyed, confused, messed up state of mind he agrees to a lifting contest with Fitzgerald. And loses. Which is a cherry on that shitty, depressing day, and it’s barely afternoon. Harry goes home and cuddles Beau, who cuddles back for awhile before he gets all wriggly and in need of a walk.

 _Don’t run into Connelly, don’t run into Connelly_ , Harry begs the entire time they’re at the park, and tells himself that he isn’t disappointed when they get home without seeing him, but that is a lie and he is a liar.

*

Harry successfully hides out after that, if hiding means not seeing Connelly, which it does, but there’s a whole crimp in that plan, and that’s the fact they, you know, play on the same team. Which is a bit of a problem.

A worse problem is when in OT, Harry passes the puck to Connelly as he’s making his way back to the bench, completely gassed, and Connelly proceeds to go on a breakaway with it and score one of the most beautiful goals Harry has ever seen in person.

Harry barrels into Connelly, exhaustion forgotten, face getting shoved against his chest when the rest of the team comes barreling right after him, spilling off the bench, kind of offended when Michaels gives Connelly a helmet tap _right over his head_. Fucking giants.

They disentangle eventually, after a billion dudes insist on getting their helmet taps in for Connelly, who practically has to bend at the waist for Fitzy’s, and, of course, the obligatory thanking their goalie, and Connelly and Harry are two of the last off the ice, followed only by the goalies, who know no one wants to get stuck behind their waddling asses.

“That was a badass goal, Connie,” Harry says when they’re heading down the hall, exchanging fistbumps with the equipment guys.

Connelly’s been smiling non-stop since he scored, but it seems to widen a little just for Harry. Probably just Harry being stupid. “Thanks to your awesome pass,” he says, which like. It was a pass that led to a goal, so by definition, pretty awesome, but it wasn’t a particularly impressive pass on its own merits.

“All you,” Harry says. “Seriously.”

“Don’t be modest,” Connelly says, knocking him on the shoulder. “Come out with us tonight! I’ll buy you a drink to thank you.”

“Okay,” Harry hears himself saying. “Sure, that’s. Good.”

“Good!” Connelly says, and then disappears into his adoring crush. Harry watches his retreating back, feeling vaguely like he wants to follow, which is stupid. He goes to grab a shower instead. 

Harry expected more dudes to be coming out after that epic finish, but ends up just being a few of them, guys who don’t have to head home to anyone. Or like, Harry has to head home to Beau, but Siobhan walked him during the game, and he’s probably just curled up on the couch like he always does when Harry isn’t around, taking advantage of his solitude to blatantly ignore all the rules he follows when Harry’s there to enforce them. Jerk dog.

Drinkers are congregating near the doors, obvious in the way they huddle that they’re a group and not just in proximity to each other, and Harry walks over to them.

Victor gives him a weird look. “Coming out with us?” he asks, sounding skeptical.

“What?” Harry asks. “Is it invite only or something?”

“No,” Victor says. “You just never come.”

Harry comes out, it’s just usually when the whole roster’s going, including the dads and homebodies, and Harry doesn’t have an excuse not to. It isn’t that he doesn’t like going out — he likes it when he’s with buds or whatever, but the young guys are younger than him, and the guys closer to his age are usually settled, have houses and serious relationships and maybe kids if they got on that early — and are from a small town, because those dudes seem to get on the whole family man thing by Harry’s age like they’re running out of time — and Harry’s stuck in this weird limbo between them. He guesses it’s worse for Roman, who’s older than some of the dads and running around with the rookies, probably because they’re the ones closest to his maturity level.

“Going out, kids?” Fitzy asks, while they’re waiting on Connelly, who’s unsurprisingly getting all the media attention. 

“Yeah, you coming?” Victor asks.

“Nah, going home to the old man,” Fitzy says, and Victor elbows Harry hard in the side. Harry glares at him, and almost, but doesn’t quite, miss the smirk Fitzy’s got on his face. “I see someone finally convinced Chalmers to go out.”

“I go out,” Harry mutters.

“Have fun kiddos!” Fitzy says.

“You’re like two years older than me,” Harry calls after him, then, “The fuck was that about?” to Victor, because that elbow was _vicious_.

“His ‘old man’,” Victor says, voice low like he’s saying some kind of secret instead of just repeating what Fitzy says. 

“Okay?” Harry says.

“Like the dude we saw in the window?” Victor says.

“It’s just a phrase,” Harry says. “Don’t tell me you’re all aboard Connelly’s ‘if Fitzy’s doing an old dude it maybe there’s a chance with Roman!’ bullshit.”

“Don’t be an asshole,” Victor says.

“Don’t humor his delusions,” Harry mutters, and then of course turns his head and sees Roman blatantly staring at Connelly, which. Ugh.

Roman thankfully doesn’t end up coming out with them, something that Harry’s relieved about because — he doesn’t know why.

Okay, he does. Roman comes out and says the tiniest nice thing to Connelly, who deserves it with that goal, and Connelly’s going to be all heart eyes and fluttery hands in his direction, and Harry doesn’t want to see that. Not even because of whatever the hell his dick’s decided to do in response to Connelly’s smile in total betrayal of his brain, but because it’s embarrassing. Harry doesn’t see how Connelly doesn’t get that he’s completely embarrassing himself in front of everyone. Or maybe he does get it, just can’t help it, so overcome by Roman’s whateverthefuck that he can’t keep himself from turning in his direction all the time like he’s the fucking sun.

“Dude, pace yourself,” Victor says when Harry pounds his first beer back in the time everyone else’s gotten through maybe a quarter of theirs.

“Not my keeper, Kjeldsen,” Harry says.

Harry’s bracketed between Connelly and the wall, and it’s tight, six of them squished in a booth that fits — well, six, but not six hockey players. Connelly takes up a lot of space. He isn’t one of those dudes who spreads his legs out like his balls are so big he can’t sit like a normal fucking person, he’s taking up as little space as he can. He does that a lot, makes himself as small as possible, but as small as possible with Connelly is still _huge_ , so as small as possible still means his thigh’s pressing against Harry’s, his arm brushes him every time he moves, and it’s like. A lot.

This was an awful idea, and Harry needs another drink. Bad. He tries to signal the waitress as she passes, but Connelly’s giant-ass…everything appears to block her view of him, and he sighs and resigns himself to being way too sober for this. Which is probably for the best. Who knows how well he’d handle all that everything with more booze in his system. He hates Annie. She couldn’t have just left him unaware, oh no, she had to make everything terrible.

Connelly beams down at his phone beside him, eyes crinkling, and Harry swallows.

“Novy,” Connelly says, apparently aware Harry’s watching him like a creep, then hands his phone to Harry without Harry asking for it. Harry takes it, sees a string of parentheses in like, the most smiley Russian smiley of all time, and then some hearts and goal lights and a single Canadian flag. 

It’s weird seeing it, though Harry knows Val and Connelly are friends. They were planning on moving in together this season, until Val got sent down, and you don’t do that if you don’t get along well. Val’s hard not to like, and that doesn’t go for just Harry but the whole team as well. Though Harry’s sure they’d say the same for Connelly, and Harry didn’t — well okay maybe he’s likable. Whatever.

It’s just weird because Val kind of feels like he’s Harry’s. Like, they were road roomies, they texted a lot during the offseason, Val would send him ridiculous videos in Russian Harry couldn’t even begin to figure out the meaning of. Val was without a doubt Harry’s best friend on the team, and it’s — maybe that didn’t go both ways. Harry doesn’t know.

“Guess he’s happy for you,” Harry says, handing the phone back. Val didn’t text him. Harry didn’t have the game winning goal, so it’s stupid and petty to be annoyed, but he is anyway, sending Val a text _what, no American flags for the assist?_

 _u looking at connies phone? :O_ Val sends back almost immediately, followed by a string of every flag that’s represented by the roster, including a Russian one, though Val’s the only Russian they have. Harry’s not pointing that out. He’s not a jerk, or at least not one to Val. It’d be like being mean to Beau. They’re both cute, though Beau totally has the edge, and neither of them would understand _why_ you were being mean to them, which would tip the scales from jerk to some kind of evil.

Harry paces himself after the first drink, but three in he’s buzzing like he’s had more, maybe because he took his first pint like medicine. Harry after one drink was right: more beer is not helping the Connelly thing. Or maybe it is, if helping means just feeling kind of warm and happy about the proximity instead of warm and anxious. Though he thinks that might be bad. Fuck.

“You okay?” Connelly asks, nudging Harry gently in the side with an elbow.

“Fine, why?” Harry asks.

“You’re just really quiet,” Connelly says.

Harry shrugs. “Don’t have much to say,” he says. “Did I tell you your goal was awesome?”

Connelly smiles. “Yeah,” he says. 

“Worth saying again,” Harry says. “It’s like. One of the most beautiful goals I’ve ever seen in person.”

Connelly ducks his head a little, going bashful basically on cue, and Harry looks at the pink shell of his ear and wonders if it’d be hot against his lips, his tongue. He wants to bite it.

Harry is so cut off.

Thankfully the other guys cut themselves off soon after. Less thankfully, Harry ends up in a car with Connelly and Victor, since they’re all going the same way, and Victor’s the first out, so it’s just him and Connelly in the dark of the backseat. Connelly chattered the whole time Victor was there, but he’s quiet now. Probably thinks Harry doesn’t want to hear him, and who could blame him for that, but it’s awkward, the silence, heavy, and means there isn’t anything distracting Harry from the heat Connelly’s giving off, the soft sound of his breathing.

Harry’s dropped off before Connelly, and Connelly touches his wrist as he’s getting out, says, “It was nice having you. Come next time?”

“Yeah,” Harry’s saying before he can stop himself, which is starting to become a depressing trend. “Sure.”

“Great,” Connelly says, and Harry hates how much his smile gets to him, especially since he’s _always smiling._

“Beau, my life is terrible,” Harry announces as soon as he’s in the door, bending down to rub Beau while he does the ‘it’s been entire _hours_ since you were in my life’ dance of glee, which is different from the one when Harry’s been gone for days only in that Harry’s a little less likely to have gleeful dog knock him on his ass with his adoration.

Beau calms down enough to let Harry get his coat and shoes off, but follows on his heels when he heads upstairs.

“I don’t think this stupid thing is going away, Beau,” Harry says miserably.

Beau nudges his knee with his nose.

“Thanks, bud,” Harry says. “Appreciate your support. I’m going to go lie in shame now.”

Beau tries to follow him into his room. “You have your own bed, Beau,” Harry says. “I need to face my shame alone.”

Beau looks up at him. Harry’s aware that it’s like, just a normal look and not actually a tragic puppy face, but. 

“Ugh, fine,” Harry says, and Beau makes himself comfortable at the foot of Harry’s bed while Harry wallows in the shame.  


“He’s not even cute, Beau,” Harry says tragically, and Beau doesn’t stir, not even bothering to pretend to believe his lies.

“Ugh, he’s so cute,” Harry mumbles, and turns his head into his pillow and tries to smother himself before he regresses any more into a teenager.


End file.
